runaway

When Bessie finally got Water Moccasin's truck fixed, the two of them took off to see how it would run. Water Moccasin always bragged on his wife. She could fix anything and did, because Water Moccasin himself was a drunk and if he wasn't on the job, hanging drywall, he was passed out in his recliner.

I loved to hear Water Moccasin stories, how he bragged on his wife, how strong she was, how competent and capable. She was a legend among the working men on the construction crews, a tiny little dark tanned woman, tough as nails, as hard working as anyone I've ever known. Bessie. I called her Mrs. Water Moccasin which never failed to make her cackle. Her grin was a little snaggle toothed, and she had laughing eyes. It was impossible not to feel happy in her presence.

I always wanted to be just like her, like Bessie, with her competence in the manly arts. I pride myself on my physical strength and my way with the power tools, but Bessie could out work most men, and she didn't mind dirty, a thing which has always stood between me and my urge to do physical labor.

When they took off that day, the truck was running rough. Over time, it smoothed out and as they traveled, it got better and better. It was finally running so well that Water Moccasin and his Bessie kept on driving until they hit the west side of Alaska. That's a long way from Oklahoma, a lot of driving for a drunk old man and his tough, merry little wife.

Water Moccasin died a few years after that. Bessie never came back to Oklahoma. That's how I feel a lot of days, like I could just get in the truck and drive. I could load up my little husband and hit the road. Never look back. Just let go of this life and responsibility and obligation. Goodbye to all of that. You? Ever want to run away, cut those ties? Did you do it?

stuff

I am buried, inundated, covered up, drowning, suffocating, full up. It's stuff. Stuff in my home. Stuff in my drawers. Stuff in closets, under the bed, in the garage, the basement, the cupboards.

Stuff on chests, desks, in bookcases. Stuff on the kitchen counter, on shelves, in neat little storage containers, baskets and boxes.

It's very cool stuff, mostly, beyond the detritus that accumulates in any house over time. The stuff in my house is pretty and it adds tremendously to my eclectic and romantic style of decorating. After the housekeeper's been in on Wednesday, I come home and my house looks like it's ready for a magazine shoot.

But I'm sick of it, this stuff. I feel overwhelmed by it. In addition to the house, I have a warehouse full of stuff. Full. Now that is overwhelming, but it's business and it's away, so it's the house that's on my mind right now.

I want it gone, this stuff of mine. My husband won't release his, but I am certain I can work up to letting go my 1920s moon prints, the English potlids, three dozen opera glasses, some of the little boxes (all of them? eek!) and possibly the seashell purses (but not the 1890s seashell souvenirs, not right now).

There's old copper and 1000 pieces of Harlequin and Riviera dinnerware. There's the divine old Steubenville dinnerware I have never used, not once. Wooden hatforms and shoeforms to match. Pen and inks of Paris, old photos and stained glass. Watches and funky jewelry from the '80s and an old fur muff. A leopard collar (should I bury it) and tortoiseshell dresser set (I should bury it). Books and books and books and books. Lamps and trays and coffee grinders and things that caught my fancy one moment in time.

I don't know what I'm saving it for. It keeps me tied down, trapped by even the thought of moving out of this house. I want to live in Mexico and moving the contents of this house seems impossible and I don't even want to. I want simple, easy, and I don't want to devote another second of my life to the maintenance of things I don't need. It's almost shameful, really, that I have so much. So many people live on almost nothing and I am whimpering about my excess.

I've needed a project, especially with the garden going by for the winter, so I'm going to get rid of it, one piece at a time. eBay for fun and freedom. Will people buy it? The treasures, certainly, but all of the rest? No way to tell. Push comes to shove, Goodwill's getting a windfall. When I'm cleared out, I expect I'll feel light as a feather with skippy traveling feet that will take me around the world, unburdened, released from bondage, free.